


Scoot

by Reaping



Series: Artsy April [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Derek and Scott and Stiles friendship, Gen, I don't even know how to tag it really, Lydia is done with everyone's shit, Mild hurt, Pillow Fights, SCOOT, Scott is a Good Friend, but sometimes not a great alpha, seriously, stiles is an asshole, this is just ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6533833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reaping/pseuds/Reaping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 11th prompt: Atmosphere</p><p>*listen, I just really went broad with this. There's an atmosphere of nonsense to this entire bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scoot

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a lovely challenge with some friends called Artsy April. They'll be doing art, but since I cannot draw or paint or sculpt or do basically anything art-related to save my life, I'm doing a daily fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If I missed tags let me know. Concrit is always welcome and appreciated.

Sweat rolled down his face, mixing with the smears of dirt and blood and making him grimace. He heaved in a sigh before rolling the loft door open and trudging to the shower, he’d called dibs when they were on the way back – and since he was the only one still battered and bruised, nobody argued with him. The shower was turned as hot as it could go, dirty clothes dumped into the laundry basket, clean towel pulled out of the cabinet above the sink. As the water helped to sluice the dirt and grime away, Stiles stewed in his own thoughts. Again, Scott didn’t listen to them. _Again_. It didn’t matter how many times they’d had the same damned argument, he was the Alpha and he made the final decision. The troll they had been after was small, thankfully, but still ridiculously strong. Stiles had tried to explain to Scott that it couldn’t be reasoned with, but he wouldn’t hear it. Once again, Stiles paid the price for that. He hissed in pain as his fingers brushed across the bruise blossoming on his ribs. They weren’t broken, but they hurt like a bitch. He winced again as he patted himself dry, dragging sweats from the same cabinet that housed the towels – they finally agreed that having some spare communal clothing stashed away at each of their houses would be a good idea, it had only taken them 5 years to figure it out. He bends awkwardly to reach the first aid kit kept under the sink for the few human members of the pack and heads out to the main room so someone else can clean up. He catches a wince on Scott’s face as he passes, eyes tracking down Stiles’ chest to the expanding ring of purple.

Stiles perches on the arm of the sofa while he shuffles through the first aid kit for the ace bandage – the ribs may not be broken, but wrapping them up will probably help keep it that way. His body flinches and curves as he tries to hold one end of the bandage against his body and roll the rest around. He can feel the roll of Derek’s eyes as the other man huffs out a sigh before washing his hands in the sink and coming over to snatch the roll from his hand, pressing the loose end against Stiles chest and giving him the judge-y eyebrows until he gets with the program and holds it in place so Derek can wind the rest of it around him. He sucks in a breath as it gets tightened, but doesn’t protest. Derek moves away as soon as he’s finished, dropping heavily into the chair he favors and runs his fingers across his forehead, exhaustion clear in the slump of his shoulders. Stiles repacks the kit and tosses it onto the coffee table and slides down until his back hits the sofa cushions, legs still draped over the arm. He drags his fingers through his hair, fluffing it up.

“My name is Scoot and I’m the boss of everybody so I don’t have to listen to what anyone says.” His lips twist down as he speaks, voice going up an octave. “I don’t care how often I’m wrong, I’m the alpha and I don’t need advice.” He catches the smirk on Derek’s face before its schooled back to indifference. It’s all the encouragement he needs, and he’s up on his feet, ignoring the pull of his torso. “No Stiles, there’s no reason to listen to you, Scoot knows best. You’re just the human; you couldn’t possibly understand that the troll can see a better way.” His neck is stretched, jaw sticking out, hair flopping wetly from side to side. He can see Derek chewing on his cheek as he imitates Scott to excess. He yelps when a throat clears behind him.

“Really Stiles?”

“What?” The blink and stare is all mock innocence, he’s not really sure how long Scott’s been standing there watching as he strutted around the loft.

“You’re being an asshole.”

“I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about _Scoot_. See. Scoot, not Scott.”

“Yeah, super original there. I’m sorry if I don’t automatically assume everything needs to be killed; sometimes there _is_ a better way.”

“NOT WHEN IT’S A TROLL AND I GET HURT AGAIN!” Scott has the grace to look guilty. And of course it makes Stiles feel guilty for being an ass about it, because he knows Scott means well but damned if he isn’t tired of being ignored until things go to shit. “Listen, I’m sorry, I know you don’t mean for this to happen. I just wish you’d listen to the rest of us.”

“I know. I’ll work on it.” Scott gently bumps his shoulder against Stiles’ and he knows they’ll be alright; Scott can’t seem to stay mad at anyone for longer than a couple of minutes. He doesn’t miss the eyeroll from Derek though about it, because they both know that Scott will try, but that doesn’t mean anything will change anytime soon. Still…it is what it is.

“Whatever you say _Scoot_.” He smirks, laughter snorting out of his nose and eyes closing momentarily. It was a mistake. Scott may forgive, but he doesn’t forget, and before Stiles knows what happened, his head is bobbing forward from the force of the couch pillow that Scott just hit him with. He sputters for a minute, eyes wide. “Oh it is oooon.” He grabs another of the throw pillows off the couch, managing to catch Scott off-guard when he vaults over the back of it. Sliding a little on the throw rug (and when the hell did Derek get a throw rug?). He manages to duck the next swing Scott aims at him, but it’s close and he flails his way around the couch again, trying to stay out of reach while using his longer arms to bap the pillow at Scott’s smiling face. Unfortunately, Scott is a werewolf, and therefore far faster than Stiles could ever really hope to be. He skids around the table just in time to get a face full of pillow, which leaves him flailing. He can’t catch himself and his ass slams into the floor. That seems to be the final straw for Derek, whose face is now flaming from trying to hold back the laughter. It barrels out of him so hard he doubles over, arms clutching his sides, tipping out of his chair to land in a heap on the floor. Stiles and Scott exchange a glance before the both whack him with their pillows, which shuts him up. He tries to glare but can’t hold it in, smile breaking across his face (Jesus that smile, Stiles isn’t sure he could handle seeing that all the time but he’d really like to find out). They both step back as Derek regains his feet, mischievous glint shining in his eyes before he darts past them and grabs the two remaining pillows off the couch. After that it’s a race around the apartment, every man for himself, feathers flying as seams burst on all of the pillows (they really didn’t stand a chance against werewolf strength). Stiles isn’t sure how long it lasts, but he’s starting to feel the strain when they all go in for a hit at once and end up collapsed in a heap on the throw rug behind the sofa. They’re laughing and feathers are everywhere, stuck in Scott’s hair, Derek’s beard, hell Stiles is pretty sure there’s one in his ear at this point. And of course that’s when Lydia opens the door, all of them laughing like lunatics, faces red and shiny with sweat.

“What the hell did you do to my pillows?” Nobody can answer; her expression – a strange mix of disgust and horror, lip curled and mouth parted – sends them into another fit of laughter.

“I came to tell you that I figured out where the troll came from, but I cannot deal with this tonight.” She spins on her heel and exits the loft with a flick of her hair, mumbling something about “idiots” under her breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](jennthereaper.tumblr.com) if you'd like.


End file.
